January 16, 2003 (idea)

Numbered precision marks every surface, perfect in line with no thought of disorder. But one rogue clock stands out of sync forever trailing and calling out the wrong time. Time to go, time to live, and I'm on the street.

Streets of Boston, bean town, no friends, no neighbor and no family. Here I swim in brick and mortar buildings full of tales to tell a youngster. Am I still young? Perhaps among bricks generations older than I. But what does that mean? What can history tell me about myself? Nothing beyond the fact that this has happened before.

Patterns upon outlines, shadows of things before me and events to come. How many times has my soul sat here, waiting and watching for a sign? A change in my perception, as I wonder, which is crooked, the universe or only my thoughts?

Slanted writing and crooked letters as we begin anew, synapses break and rejoin as pen rekindles love of paper, ink flowing and thoughts recording themselves only as fast as the hand can move.

And now another blank slate awaits. Shattered by the mark of words like blood spilled on freshly fallen snow, Melting into pink and passionate rivers. Carrying life and love on a never ending path of road blocks and obstacles. And all I can do is watch. Watch as the world is torn down and rebuilt as my soul is unwrapped and set free to fly.

What am I scared of? Perhaps that my soul will leave without me, lost until life spans have passed before i can find it again. Lost. And then we wait and wait for new thoughts and new energy, for the brilliant flash that will tell all. Some magnificent streak of lightning, for an instant revealing that which remains unseen. The silhouette of a far gone lover too close for comfort, the shadow of a demon hidden under the mattress, the slimy tongue of some serpentine beast unshackled and released to play on my fears.

"How did I get here" he asks and it shoots to my brain. My thoughts ripen into ideas and theories, each shot down with the startling efficiency of a sniper or assassin, preying upon its target, its next meal. The thought police at my door and when I open it I realize it's only myself.